Pandora's Box
by WhyAye
Summary: Lewis's curiosity about a locked box that was Val's sends him spiraling into despair as his life crumbles and he learns his career cost him more dearly than he imagined.  M for language.  **Thanks to Shorina for feeding my bunny!** 8/10/10: Complete!
1. Chapter 1

The box is of carved wood, about the size of a toaster. Heavier than one might expect. And indisputably locked. Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis had forgotten about it, after tucking it away in a large cardboard carton he marked simply, "V." He studies it now, testing the latch. It is very secure. Something inside makes a clunk when he turns the box over.

He's making another go at clearing out, trying to trim down his collection of mementos of his wife, Valerie, now dead nearly eight years. He remembers setting this box aside the last time he let go of some of her things. He was curious about the contents but he could not get the box open then, nor could he bear to destroy it trying. What kind of secrets had she kept from him? He's not sure he wants to know. He doesn't want to take it to a locksmith. If there _are_ secrets in here, he wants to be the only one to know about them.

He gazes sadly up at the photo of the two of them he keeps close at hand. _What was it, Pet, that you never told me about? What did you think I couldn't understand?_ He knows he has to find out what's in the box. His knowledge can't hurt her any more.

He pours himself a scotch and contemplates the box. She had never mentioned it and he had never known about it while she lived. He found it hidden among her things well back in her wardrobe when he moved out of the home they had shared for so many years. At that point, he was still saving everything of hers. He twisted a knowing smile for his own benefit. Holding on to a person's things does not mean you can hold on to the person, he had come to learn. By now, he needs very few tangible reminders of his partner of roughly twenty-five years. A favorite scarf, still bearing her scent; a photo; a handwritten note of endearment. The rest was clutter, representing his illogical fear that if he got rid of her things, he would forget her.

But now, this box. It is too beautiful to destroy, not if he can find some other way to get in. If only he knew a safecracker!

He refills his glass with more scotch. He can feel it starting to affect him, but what the hell. It is unlikely he'll get called out, and the buzz helps him ignore the spiteful little voice that keeps whispering in his mind. _She had some secret she never told you. A terrible secret. Why else lock it up?_ A lover? An abortion? God, he has to know.

The ringing of his mobile breaks his concentration. He answers it, irritated.

"Yeah, Lewis."

"Robbie, man!" The jovial voice is familiar and unmistakably Geordie.

"Danny! What are you callin' us for on a Sunday night?"

"Well, my local's shut and no one else will give me credit. I get me whack on Monday. But I need a beer tonight."

"You're always welcome to drink my beer, mate. C'mon over."

"Aw, thanks a lot, man."

Lewis's initial irritation gives way to a developing idea. "Hey, Danny?"

"Aye, what?"

"You're good wi' locks, yeah?"

Silence. Lewis knows he has to reassure his friend that he's not asking as a cop. "It's nowt to do with the law, Danny. I've got a lock here I can't budge. I need your help, man."

The relief is audible. "Oh, aye, man. I can do locks. A lock for a beer or two? Sounds even to me."

"Great. Get yourself ower here, man. Howay." As he hangs up the phone, Lewis remarks to himself how he naturally reverts to his native northern dialect when he speaks with his old mates.

He is always being pulled in two directions—the civilizing, sophisticated Oxford that is his home now but still does not feel completely natural to him, and the casual, comfortable Tyneside habits with which he was raised but now rarely practices. He can't help reaching the conclusion that he belongs to neither, rather than to both.

Danny arrives in short order and Lewis has him amply supplied with beer before showing him the box. "This is what I'd like you to look at."

Danny examines it expertly, sizing it up and sounding it out like a worthy adversary. At last he is satisfied. "Nothin' complicated, like. We've got the basics down on this type already. Only take me a few minutes."

"Er . . . Danny." The trepidation in Lewis's voice has the shorter man's immediate attention. He squints in concern.

"What is it, man?"

Lewis takes a deep breath but he doesn't speak.

Danny keys in on his old mate's anxiety. "Where'd you get this, anyway?"

"It was Val's. I dunno what's inside. Didn't know she had it, even."

"Ah." He's quiet a moment. "Somethin' you were never meant to see, then. You sure y'want us to open this? Might be like that box, that What's-Her-Name's Box. The Greek lass."

Lewis firms his lips. "Pandora."

"Aye, that's the one."

"I have to know, Danny. Or else, I'll imagine the worst. It can't hurt her anymore."

"She's not the one I'm thinkin' might get hurt."

Lewis scowls at him. "Just get the bloody lock. I'll open the box later."

Now Danny is stern. "I'll not let you be by yerself when y'open that. You'll do it now while we're here or we'll leave it locked." Lewis has no choice.

"Fine."

Danny pulls out a small tool and fiddles with the lock until a small _click_ is heard. He sets the box on the low table and turns to his old friend.

"Now, I'm gettin' another beer. You see what's inside and I'll be over in the kitchen. You tell me if you want me to stay or go. Alright?"

Lewis says nothing but when Danny has his back turned, he slowly lifts the lid.

"_Bloody hell_." Whispered.

Danny spins and sees his friend's face has gone white. The lid blocks Danny's view of the contents. He starts to approach but Lewis holds up his hand.

"Stay there." Lewis sprints to his bedroom and when he comes back, he's pulling on a pair of the blue gloves they use for investigating crime scenes. He reaches inside the box and holds up a silver revolver, pinching it delicately by the trigger guard. He turns it around, examining it.

"It's loaded." There is wonder in his voice.

Danny remains where he is. "Is that it, man? Anything else?"

Lewis nods slowly. He carefully replaces the gun and reaches into the box again. This time he holds up a small, glass tube. His professional experience tells him what this is, but he shakes his head, disbelieving. "A crack pipe? And there's stuff in here that looks like rocks of it, or maybe some other drug. And marijuana joints. Money—a stack of twenty-pound notes. A box of cartridges for the gun." Utter confusion fills his face. "What the bloody hell."

Danny comes around and stands next to Lewis, peering into the box. "I s'pose it's good it's not love letters from some other man."

Lewis snorts. "Aye, well, _that_ at least I'd know how to handle. This—I can't figure why she'd have this. She couldn'a' been into drugs. I'd've known." He searches Danny's broad face as though it holds the answers he seeks. "Wouldn't I?"

He's lost.

They stare at the improbable collection for some time. Lewis at last turns away, picks up his empty whisky glass and puts it back down. He drums his fingers, then closes the box and peels off his gloves.

"What am I gonna do with this, Danny?"

Danny grabs the bottle of scotch, pours a measure into Lewis's glass, and hands it to him.

"Well, ye canna go to the cops, man. Not til ya know what this is all aboot."

More silence. Lewis drains his glass in one swallow. Danny watches him, worried.

"Look, Robbie, man. She musta been keepin' it for someone. A friend or a relative, summat like that."

Lewis's eyes snap to him, a tentative relief filling them. "Yeah, that must be it." He takes a pencil and paper from the shelf and reopens the box. Turning the gun carefully with the pencil, he finds the serial number etched into it and writes it down on the paper. "Time to do a little detective work. Only, I'll have to wait til tomorrow. Don't want anyone wondering why I went into the office on a Sunday."

He feels a little better now that he has a plan and a possible explanation he can accept. By the time Danny leaves, he's able to smile a bit.

"Danny, thanks for your help on this. I don't need to tell you . . ."

"Divvn't fret, bonny lad. No one will hear it from us, not even Mack."

"Cheers."


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Sergeant James Hathaway finds a surprise when he arrives at the office at seven o'clock Monday morning.

"Morning, Sir. You're here early." Lewis glances up. He looks tired. "Rough weekend, Sir? I mean, you don't look very well rested." Hathaway offers the explanation in response to Lewis's raised eyebrows.

"Ah. Insomnia's back. I don't think I slept at all last night. Figured I might as well be here."

"Have we something to work on?"

"Not a case, no." Lewis is thoughtful. "Y'know, Sergeant, I've been thinking. This new system we have now, I don't really know how to work it. I'm always having you look things up for me. What if I need to find something and you're not here?"

Hathaway studies him a moment. The system had been implemented two years ago. _Why this sudden interest? _"You want me to show you?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Hathaway is jolted by a sudden, alarming realization. _He's lying_. Lewis isn't good at lying but he does it so rarely it has taken Hathaway a while to recognize that Lewis's whole premise is false. The knowledge puts him on guard.

"Why not indeed, Sir?" He pulls his chair around to Lewis's desk. "Okay. Start by getting into the system." Hathaway walks him through the various ways of searching: type of crime, personal name, place, type of victim, and so on. He can tell he hasn't yet hit on what Lewis wants to know and the senior partner does not always appear to be paying attention.

When there is a pause, Lewis at last asks something specific.

"What if I want to find out about a bit of evidence? Say, a car registration, or a fingerprint, or a gun?"

Hathaway well conceals his curiosity. "Okay, a car registration. Got one I can use?"

"Mine?"

"Yours won't show up in the file unless it's been reported in a crime or traffic incident."

Lewis's face falls, then brightens again. "Morse's! His was vandalized and he filled out an official report for the insurance. It's 248 RPA."

Hathaway clicks on another menu. "Here are all the different evidence databases." He pauses here. He can see Lewis's eyes flying over the screen, taking it all in. He quickly smoothes his brow before the inspector notices him watching.

"So. Here's car registrations. Click that, then type it in. If you get to where there's only one that matches, it will fill in the rest of the number when you've put in enough of a partial." He types in the first five characters of Morse's number and the computer supplies the last. As expected, the record of the vandalism appears, along with reports of body damage the car suffered in a couple of cases. Lewis studies the process very closely.

"Does it keep track of who has run what searches?"

Hathaway frowns. _Odd question_. "I don't know, Sir." James makes a mental note to find out the answer for himself.

"What about fingerprints, ballistics, DNA, that kind of thing?"

"Well, only forensics has the equipment to enter the data from the physical evidence. Once it's in, then each pattern is given an ID number and you can enter that here—" he clicks to the menu "—to see in what files that gun or fingerprint or DNA is noted."

At last he has to ask, it would be weird not to, given the series of unusual questions his boss has just fired off. "Are you working on something specific, Sir? I might be more help if I knew the context."

It is as though a door closes in Lewis's eyes. No anger, just the severing of a connection between them. "No, Sergeant. Nothing specific. Just want to be sure I'm up to speed on this."

Lewis is lying to his face, he is certain. Hathaway toys with calling him on it. _What is he covering up?_ But James says nothing. If he speaks now, he won't get another word from Lewis. Play dumb and maybe the man will let down his guard a bit.

Hathaway pushes back from Lewis's desk. "So you think you got most of that? Why don't you practice while I go get some fresh air?"

"Yeah, okay, good idea."

But instead of heading out to his favorite smoking spot, Hathaway directs his steps down a different hallway to the IT department.

* * *

As soon as Hathaway is out of sight, Lewis shuts the office door. Within a few clicks of the mouse, he is ready to enter the serial number of the gun he now possesses. When he has entered most of the digits, the computer automatically fills in the rest. He swallows. This means the police system already has this weapon on file.

The record comes up with two entries: the registration records and a link to a criminal file. He clicks on that next, and learns the gun was reported stolen in 1997. The theft was part of a burglary occurring in a home where the owners had been away on holiday. It was never solved and the stolen property was never recovered.

_Great. Not only do I own an unlicensed gun, I now possess stolen property_. He jots down the pertinent information from the file and quickly closes out the record. Then he opens the office door and is practicing random searches when Hathaway returns.

"How's it going, Sir?"

"I think I'm getting the hang of it, although finding things for practice is bound to be different from using it for real. And if I don't use it very often, I'll probably forget a lot." Still the evasion in his eyes.

Hathaway gets his chance when Lewis steps out to use the gents'. He speeds to the other side of the office and quickly follows the steps he memorized after telling the IT guy he needed to recreate a search he'd done but couldn't remember the terms he'd used.

There it is—Lewis searched for the serial number of a weapon. After that, Lewis checked the file in which the gun was reported stolen. And that was all. Hathaway notes the number sequence and restores Lewis's computer to standby mode where he had found it. At his own desk, he thoroughly reads the burglary report. He can see no personal connection to Lewis, no reason for it to draw his interest. Lewis hadn't worked on the case back in 1997. In fact, none of the officers who worked on it were still with Oxfordshire Police.

Through the office windows he sees Lewis returning. Hathaway clicks away from the file and puts up a cold case he has been noodling over.

Lewis says little for the rest of the day. His thoughts are plainly preoccupied. But by quitting time, James can see the inspector's eyes are flooded with frustration. He takes a deep breath, adopts his most nonthreatening attitude, and stands close to Lewis as the man gathers his things to go home.

"Sir. Please don't hesitate to tell me this is none of my business. But I can tell something is really bothering you. And I want to help if I can. I'd like to think you trust me, Sir, after everything we've been through."

He's expecting Lewis to get angry or defensive. But this does not happen. Instead, Lewis studies him a long time, his eyes expressionless.

At last he turns away. "I'll let you know tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3

Lewis again arrives before Hathaway the next morning. He's staring at his computer screen when James arrives, chin resting in his hands. He turns to greet his junior partner, and Hathaway can see how beaten he looks. Eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, skin pale, eyes dull.

"Still not sleeping, Sir?"

Instead of an answer, he gets a command. "Close the door, Sergeant."

_Here it comes_, James thinks. He does as he is told.

Lewis stares at his desk. "I need your help, Hathaway. It's a personal matter. I intend to tell you only as much as is absolutely necessary. If you have a problem with that, let me know now, so I don't make the mistake of telling you anything." His eyes flick up to meet Hathaway's.

James swallows. "I'm okay with that, Sir. I said I want to help you. I'm not much help if I can't accept your terms."

Lewis's eyebrows shoot up for a second at this unexpectedly conciliatory attitude. Assessing it as genuine, he takes a deep breath and continues.

"I need to discover the provenance of certain items. One is a revolver. I looked up the serial number yesterday and learned it was reported stolen in 1997. That's all I know. And there are some other items . . ." He trails off. He knows he hasn't given James enough information to be of help.

Hathaway waits patiently. If he pushes, Lewis will close up completely.

"They're not things that can be traced and I can't figure out how to learn more about them." Lewis shuts his eyes. Hathaway knows he's almost there.

When Lewis opens his eyes, they are at last full of emotion. James sees there fear, confusion, and a desperate need for loyalty. Hathaway reaches out a figurative hand. "You _found_ this gun, Sir?" His best guess.

Lewis gazes steadily at him, vigilant for any sign that James cannot be trusted. "I have this box. It was in Val's things. I never knew of it til I found it when I was going through her stuff after . . ." He swallows. "It was locked, so I set it aside. This weekend, I got it open." He tries to swallow again, but his mouth has gone completely dry. He drains the cold dregs in the cup of coffee he'd gotten earlier, and continues.

"It held a loaded gun and a box of cartridges, a stack of twenty-pound notes, a crack pipe, what look like rocks of crack cocaine or something like that, and about a dozen marijuana joints. At least, that's what they look like."

At this, Hathaway's nostrils flare, his brow lowers, and his eyes widen. "You should turn it in, shouldn't you?" He finds it odd Lewis hasn't done the obviously correct thing, for once.

"What if they find out something about it? What if the gun was used in a crime or something? She must have been protecting someone, someone who trusted her, and now my bumbling could blow that all away."

Despite Lewis's agitation, Hathaway remains calm.

"Well, how would they—and by 'they' I presume you mean 'we', the police—find out something?"

"I dunno. Test it for fingerprints, ballistics, DNA on the pipe, that sort of thing."

"All those questions you asked me yesterday are beginning to make sense." James leaves unspoken the implied accusation that Lewis was dishonest with him, but Lewis understands it anyway, and glances away.

"I was pretty unhinged by all this yesterday." He peeks at his partner. "Still am. I'm sorry I . . . y'know . . . didn't tell you."

"'S'okay. It's pretty heavy sh—erm, _stuff_." Hathaway gets back on track. "So, what if _we_ run those forensics, off the books if possible, and see for ourselves where they point?"

The older man blinks. "But I don't know how to do forensics, not beyond theory."

"Yes, but Inspector, we know someone who does. And I think she's enough of a friend that we can trust her with this."

"Doctor Hobson."

"She's our best shot."

Lewis twists his mouth. _First Danny, then James, now Laura?_ How many of his friends would have to get involved?

Hathaway presses his point. "Besides, she doesn't need to know all of it. We'll tell her that it's an investigation we're not supposed to be doing. Wouldn't be the first time."

Lewis still hesitates.

"Look, Sir, a fingerprint or DNA could give us a name, someone who's connected with these things somehow. Something to go on." He emphasizes this last benefit. Without it, their investigation is basically over at this point.

"It might have _Val's_ fingerprints."

Hathaway is puzzled. "Even if it does, we wouldn't know. She's not on file, is she?"

"Ah, right. Sorry, I'm not thinking very straight."

* * *

"So what can I do for you boys? Makes me nervous when you double-team me." Doctor Hobson sips her beer in The Trout after work that day.

"We need some tests done, Laura, as quickly as possible. And it would be best if the Chief Super didn't find out about them." Lewis takes the lead. This is his problem, and he's decided to do all the affirmative misdeeds himself. If anyone catches hell for this, it should not be Hathaway.

He has her interest. "What kind of tests?"

"Fingerprints, ballistics, maybe DNA. And some suspected drugs need to be checked."

"That's a fair amount to keep quiet. Where do you want to start? The substance checks are instantaneous, I can run those as soon as you get me samples. Ballistics will be the next quickest, they have no backlog right now. It's not a very accurate test, you know."

Lewis mulls this over. "We have a gun that needs both ballistics and print checking. What's the fastest way to get both?"

"Well, as long as you don't need a proper chain of custody for trial purposes, if you can provide a fired bullet separate from the gun, that's the fastest. Saves a step at ballistics and the print techs can get started immediately. Just fire it into something soft. But make sure you can retrieve the bullet afterward." She sees their worried looks. "Oh, for Pete's sake—Look it up on the internet."

She gives them the details for proper handling of the evidence. Lewis decides to wait on checking the pipe for DNA. It's an expensive test and he's not even certain there's a sample there. It would probably be redundant with the print evidence, anyway. After thanking Hobson, Robbie and James go back to his flat and he shows the box and its contents to his sergeant. Then they sit, thinking and sipping scotch.

"Have you ever fired a gun, Sir?"

"Nope. You?"

Hathaway shakes his head. "This is a mad idea. We'll kill someone trying to do this."

After a moment's thought, Lewis dials a number on his mobile.

"Yeah, Danny, I need another favor."

By the time their meeting with Danny is over, he's shown them how to make a ballistics target out of wet newspapers and plastic jugs, fired the gun for them, and retrieved the bullet from the target. They return to the flat with it and the gun to prepare the evidence for testing.

Hathaway watches while Lewis bags a small sample of the crystals and one joint. "Sir, I know objective hindsight isn't easy here, but what do you think you would have done if your wife came to you ten years ago or so, and told you she was protecting an old friend by keeping these things secretly?"

"What?" Lewis has to shift gears to consider his answer. "I dunno."

"Would she have reason to think you'd have turned the person in? What I'm getting at is, why didn't she tell you she had this?"

Lewis thinks hard. "I don't s'pose I'd have let her keep it. Not in the house. Not with the kids. Still . . . she never even told me she knew someone who was in trouble. Why wouldn't she at least do that?"

No one answers his question.


	4. Chapter 4

Early the next morning, Lewis drops off a couple of unlabeled packages at Doctor Hobson's lab. She looks them over.

"No case numbers, even? What, are you going private and your clients can't afford the lab work? I can't do these without case numbers, Lewis. I do have _some_ ethical standards."

He frowns. An idea hits him, and he pulls out his notes. "Here, put this one down." He gives her the number of the burglary case in which the gun was stolen.

"1997? That's a little cold."

"Newly discovered evidence, Doctor."

"You sure this is above board, Inspector?"

"Have you ever known me to behave otherwise?"

She peers at him closely. "No. But maybe you've been careful."

"Maybe I have. When can I expect results?"

"If you want to wait a minute, I'll test the substances right now."

"That would be great."

She putters around at her bench and, in a short while, comes over with a printout.

"The crystal is crack cocaine and the joint is a marijuana atom bomb."

He blinks a bit. "Marijuana and . . ."

"Laced with heroin, right."

"Heroin. God, and it's in my flat. Thanks, Laura. The rest of the results will be when?"

She frowns at him. "This is from your _flat_, Lewis?"

He gives her a frightening look. "I didn't say that. Understand?"

Suddenly, she understands more than she would like. She breaks eye contact, then inhales and changes the mood, frowning at his impatience for the other results. "Ballistics by noon, prints by the end of the day, I should think."

She forces a small, cold smile. "You never did answer my question about whether this is above board."

He does not smile in response. "No, I didn't." And with that, he leaves.

* * *

Lewis is not at his desk when her call comes at ten past twelve.

"DI Lewis's office, this is Sergeant Hathaway."

"Ah, Sergeant. I have the results from ballistics. We have several potential matches on file, but in only one case is the gun still missing. For that one, let me give you the ID number. Are you ready?" She gives him the number, and does not mention the obvious—the missing gun is the one currently undergoing examination for fingerprints.

"Cheers."

"Hathaway . . ."

He can hear the trepidation in her voice.

"What is it, Doctor?"

"That matching bullet. When you look it up, you'll find it was retrieved from a corpse in September of 2000. It was determined to be the cause of death. Murder."

* * *

Lewis returns from getting them some takeaway and immediately sees the change in Hathaway's demeanor. He closes the office door and sets the bag of food on his desk.

"What is it, James?"

"Your gun, Sir." Lewis flinches at his use of the possessive. "Ten years ago, it was a murder weapon. The case was never solved." He hands the inspector the file he's pulled.

Lewis scans it, then closes his eyes. "_Shit_." When he reopens them, all his confusion has returned.

"How could our missus know a _murderer_, Sergeant? Why would she protect one?" He buries his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. "Why did she leave us this _mess_, without a word?"

"You were never meant to find it, Sir, you know that. Maybe someone handed her the box already locked and she never knew what was in it."

He's shaking his head. "No. I remember when she got that box. She had to be the one to put those things in there." He blinks a few times. "But a _murder weapon_, Hathaway? _Drugs_? She didn't know anyone involved in that sort of thing."

Hathaway waits a moment for the edge of Lewis's emotion to dull a little.

"Obviously, she did. Or a friend of a friend. Maybe she didn't know what it was."

"Then why keep it secret? And why protect someone that distant? God, Hathaway, I feel as though I've walked into someone else's life."

For lack of anything else to do, Lewis rereads the file. The death was unquestionably murder. But the victim was into so many nefarious dealings—drugs, money laundering, forged passports—that the number of people who may have wanted him dead exceeded the resources of the Oxfordshire CID. The pool of likely suspects was never narrowed down to less than ten. And Lewis, reading the case notes, doesn't recognize any of them. The detective team handling the case no longer works there, but Lewis recalls they were fairly competent, especially in vice matters.

He takes a deep breath. "I'm going to have to turn the gun in, Hathaway. Whoever Valerie was protecting, I owe him or her no obligation. It's a murder weapon, a crucial piece of evidence. If you talk to Hobson when she calls with the print evidence, tell her we'll be over in person. I need to get those things back."

Hathaway can tell that doing things by the book moves Lewis much closer to his comfort zone.

"Yes, Sir, that's probably best."

They spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on paperwork, Lewis struggling with budgeting and Hathaway reviewing the performances of several new detective constables.

Around half past four, Hobson calls to tell them the fingerprint results are in. Hathaway has taken the call and he notices with alarm that the Doctor's voice sounds choked.

"We'll come over in person, Lewis wants to collect the evidence himself. Is that alright?"

"James! Yes, you'd better come over. I . . . this is terrible news for Robbie." She falls silent. _Is she crying?_

"There's an ID match, then?"

"MmmHmm. Yes. Well, there are two sets of prints on the gun. One set is the same as prints found in the blood at the murder scene back in 2000. But those don't match anything on file. But the other set . . . there's an ID for that and it matches prints on the pipe, too."

He hangs up. Lewis is looking on with interest. "We've got him?"

"I'm not sure, Sir. She said there are two sets of prints on the gun. One's an unknown but for the other there's a match to a record on file."

They leave immediately for the lab. Hathaway's steps show none of the eagerness of Lewis's. _He wants this resolved so badly, he hasn't thought about how it may go_.

The two men burst through the door into the lab. Doctor Hobson looks up, startled. Her eyes are red and she holds a wadded tissue in one hand, the report in the other.

"Well?" Lewis is at her side immediately. A second later, he realizes the state she's in. "Laura? What is it?"

She tries to hand over the report but it slips through her fingers and falls to the floor. Hathaway scoops it up and scans it. His eyes widen and he passes it wordlessly to his boss.

Lewis's eyes quickly skip to where the identification is given. His heart skips a beat: _Kenneth James Lewis_. The same name as his own son. He looks from Hobson to Hathaway; sympathy shines in the eyes of both.

He shakes his head. "Must be a coincidence. Not an uncommon name. Anyway, Ken's prints aren't on file."

Hobson inhales deeply and puts her hand on his arm. "No, Robbie. I checked. The date of birth is the same."

He's confused. "Ken was never arrested for anything. Must be a double coincidence." He brushes it off. "Thanks for the fast-track service, Laura. 'S'okay if we take these things, right?"

She nods numbly.

But she grabs Hathaway's arm before he follows Lewis out the door. "His mugshot is in the file, James. It's Ken, no doubt. I met him once." She gazes after the older man's retreating back. "Hathaway, call me if you think I can help at all, okay?"

Hathaway hurries to catch up. "We'll check this file as soon as we get back, of course, but what makes you so certain it can't be your son?"

Lewis stops dead. "Sergeant, me son is not a murderer, alright? And he isn't into drugs. His prints aren't on file here 'cos he's never been arrested."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'd have known."

"Young men of his age, Sir, they get into a lot."

"They don't take prints until you're convicted. So he'd at least have been on probation if that had happened." Lewis shakes his head. "He lived at home with us then, James. I think I'd know if he had been arrested, convicted, and put on probation."


	5. Chapter 5

Lewis looks up the file himself when they return to the office. Hathaway pretends to do his own work, but he's checking, peeking across the desks to see Lewis's reaction.

Lewis taps some keys, reads, clicks, reads, and starts shaking his head. His mouth is working soundlessly. Hathaway's heart sinks, watching as Lewis covers his face with his hands and slowly draws it out, unable to keep from reading the screen again. His hands stay on his face, covering his mouth. He seems to be unaware of anything else.

Hathaway reaches over and slides the report onto his own desk, checks the number, and enters it. He's never met Lewis's son and there's not a huge resemblance between his boss and the young man in the file photo. But the age fits. James checks the list of convictions: only one, for possession of a controlled substance, in August of 1998. _Drugs_. Pleaded guilty and was given probation. Satisfactorily completed, sentence discharged in September 2001. _The year before his mother was killed_. Hathaway checks to see how Lewis is doing: Staring. Not moving.

Hathaway does the only thing he can that might make things better. He bows his head and prays, silently.

After a long time, he feels Lewis's eyes on him, and he glances over. Lewis is shaking his head as if he can't stop. "_Possession_, Hathaway. Me own son was using drugs and I didn't know. Didn't even _suspect_. This conviction—August '98—I was obsessed with the Inspector's Exam then. Wasn't home half the time, and when I was, I had me nose in a book, revising." He swallows, hard. Swallowing not only the lump in his throat but also the tears that are starting to rise in his eyes. "Did that damned promotion cost me my family? What kind of a father have I been to him?" He doesn't try to stop the tears now, they run freely down his cheeks.

"And why did Valerie never tell us? She must have known, must have been there with him through this. I was too bloody busy, wasn't I? Ah, God, and they kept secret the fact that he was on probation for _years_. Was I so horrible they couldn't tell me that? Or did they try and I was too blind to get the message?"

This seems to be a genuine question, and Hathaway at last finds his voice. "What would you have done had you known?"

Lewis blinks. He hasn't expected Hathaway to speak. "Probably would have skinned his backside, if I could."

"What, _spanked_ him? A big lad like that?"

Lewis has to concede the point. "No, you're probably right. He was bigger than me by then."

Hathaway frowns. "Are you telling me you used corporal punishment when the kids were small?"

Lewis's brow furrows. "I didn't beat them, if that's what you mean. A swat on the bum now and then to get their attention, yeah." He assesses Hathaway's rather unpleasant expression. "I didn't leave welts or bruises in case you're wondering."

"Was your wife of the same mind?"

"She never stopped me."

"You beat them."

"Naw! Just . . . y'know. Swatted them. Missed them half the time."

"Beat. Swatted. Fine line there, Sir."

"Why are y'comin' down on _me_ all of a sudden? I was raised the same; it never did me any damage."

"I'm not 'coming down on you', Sir. Only, it occurs to me that maybe Val was trying to protect Ken from you, knowing you'd get angry."

Lewis stares as though the words are foreign to him. Certainly, the idea is. And as he puzzles through what Hathaway has said, he begins to see the scope of everything he has learned this day. He glances back at the screen.

"Anyway, this doesn't explain the gun. Why are my son's fingerprints all over a murder weapon?"

Neither of them articulates the most obvious answer.

Now a new idea dawns in Lewis's mind, and some things he never understood begin to make sense.

"My God, Hathaway, is this why he went all the way to Australia when Val died? Why he speaks to me as little as he can? Does he think I'll find out, or already did, and that I would turn him in if he came back 'cos I'm a _cop_?"

"Would you?"

Lewis makes no attempt to answer that.

* * *

That evening, Lewis calls his daughter, Lyn. He needs to find out if only he was unaware of what was going on in his own house or if it was something that Ken managed to keep secret from everyone.

"Hi, Pet, it's me. I need to ask you something. I, erm . . . I found out something about your brother, and I was wondering if you knew about it at all."

She's quiet a moment. "What kind of something, Dad?"

"Something bad, Lyn. Something that happened while I was cramming for the Inspector's Exam. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Maybe. Mum said to never tell you."

"Well, I know now, I found Ken's record in our files. Is that what you think I'm talking about, his arrest for drugs?"

"Yeah, the whole drugs thing. We all knew. But we weren't certain if you didn't know, or if you knew but didn't know how to deal with it."

"I had no idea it was happening at all, Lyn. Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Mum said not to tell you because you had to focus on the exam. We all wanted you to pass, you'd been working on it so long."

He exhales in frustration. "I think I'd have liked the chance to decide for meself what was important. Why not tell me _after_ the exam?"

"Well, he'd gotten clean by then, and you weren't in the best mood since you still hadn't gotten your promotion. Mum was afraid you'd blow up at him, and she didn't want Ken to have that kind of stress in case it made him start using again."

"I wouldn't have blown up at him. I don't lose me temper like that."

She's quiet again. "Yeah, Dad, you did back then. Between when you passed the exam and before you made inspector, you were scary. Every little thing, you'd go spare. You don't remember?"

"I don't remember it _that_ way. God, Lyn, I'm sorry."

"It was a tough time for all of us, Dad. And then Chief Inspector Morse died, and Mum figured you definitely couldn't have handled it then. We made it through, though."

"Yeah, I guess. Hey, Lyn . . . do you know any reason why Ken would have had a gun?"

"A _gun?_ Like a handgun, you mean? No, I don't know anything about that. Did he?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

Lyn's tone brightens. "Maybe it belonged to that guy, what was his name? You know, that older friend of Ken's."

Lewis thinks back. "Sorry, Love, I don't know who you mean."

"Blake! That was his name. Ken was over there all the time, Dad, how could you not know?" Then she realizes. "Well, you were busy. I think Blake, y'know . . . kind of took your place. A father-figure for Ken."

"Oh." Her words cut him deeply.

"You really let him down a couple times, Dad. You weren't there when he needed you. Then he started hanging out with Blake, and next thing, Mum and I could tell he was using drugs. I think Blake got him started."

Lewis can't believe what he's hearing. How could he have been so unaware, so focused on that exam? "I guess I really let everyone down, didn't I? Am I the one to blame for all this?"

"No, Dad, you were trying to make things better for us. Promotion to inspector was so important to you, we all did what we thought was best at the time. There's no one to blame, it just happened, that's all. Ken's arrest scared him straight. He's been clean ever since, so it turned out okay."

"Only, he must hate me now. Is that why he went so far away after Mum died?"

"He really depended on her for a lot. And I think he was still angry at you. But _call him_, Dad. Now that you know everything. Tell him you're sorry and start mending your relationship with him. He'll be happy to make it up with you, I know he will. He's always telling me he's jealous of how you and I get along."

"I hope you're right, Pet. Thanks for letting me know. G'night."

"Love you, Dad."


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning before work, Lewis calculates the nine-hour time difference between England and western Australia. Three in the afternoon. He knows Ken probably won't be home, but he has to try. He taps in the long, international number. After several rings, he gets Ken's machine.

"Hi, Ken? It's Dad. I know it's been a while, but I'd like to talk to you. We should talk more often, I miss you. Call me mobile when you get the chance, okay? Here's the number."

He arrives late to the office, but Hathaway can see he appears no more rested than he did the other mornings this week. James treads very carefully in his attempt to open up the conversation.

"Any new thoughts this morning, Sir?"

"Nope. Nothing that helps." There is pain in his voice.

"Sir, I was curious . . . Kenneth _James_? Random choice or did you name him after someone?"

"It's 'James' for me old Newcastle mate, Jimmy. Jimmy's . . . he's dead now."

"Sorry."

An idea occurs to Hathaway. "You know, Sir, Ken could have found the gun. People throw away guns used in crimes all the time. Maybe he found it and then when he was on probation he would have had to stay clean, right? So he put the gun and his drugs in a box and gave it to Val to keep."

This theory does not cheer up his boss the way Hathaway had hoped.

"His probation started in 1998, Hathaway. The gun was used in a murder in 2000. So it doesn't add up. If he was on probation already, he would have known it'd be stupid to even touch a gun, no matter where he found it." His mouth is firm. "I'm going for a walk. Call us if anything comes up."

Soon after he leaves, Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent appears in the doorway, some paperwork in her hand. It is not hard for Hathaway to see that she is unhappy about something.

"Lewis is where?"

"He, erm, stepped out for a minute. Can I help?"

"Sergeant, I'm holding here expenses for some forensic tests from a case we're not working on. Inspector Lewis signed for them. I wonder if you can enlighten me in his absence."

"Tests, Ma'am?"

"Fingerprints and ballistics."

"Oh, ah, cold case investigation. An unsolved burglary and an unsolved murder. There's a gun that's turned up after having gone missing for twelve years. We thought it might be a link between them. But the ballistics test was, erm, . . . inconclusive."

Innocent rolls her eyes. "Why isn't this up in the incident room?"

"Well, there are no other connections, not enough yet to reopen the investigation. Just preliminary inquiries so far."

"Fingerprints turn up anything?"

"A name, but . . . we're not having any luck finding him in our jurisdiction. I think we're about to call it quits on this one."

"Well, don't spend any more money on it, then." Shaking her head, she leaves.

Lewis comes back an hour or so later. His mood seems slightly improved. "Hathaway, is there any way to search by Christian name?"

"No, sorry, Sir. Not by itself. Do you have a name?"

"Blake. He'd be older than Ken. But that's all I know. Maybe a drugs conviction."

Hathaway tries, but the computer beeps at him uncooperatively. "It won't even let me run the search. Sorry." He's not sure why he's apologizing for the system's shortcomings.

Around noon, Lewis's mobile rings. He studies the number, takes a deep breath, and clicks it on. Hathaway can see that Lewis is very nervous, and his half of the conversation is awkward as he tries to skirt around what dominates his thoughts.

"Ken, hi, how've you been? . . . Yeah, it has been a while, sorry, the time difference makes it hard. What are you up to these days? . . . Oh, yeah? How's that going, then? . . ." He chews his bottom lip while he listens.

"Look, Ken, something's come up I want to ask you about. I was working with this new computer system we have here and I, erm . . . I was goofing around with it, trying to learn how it works, y'know? Putting in people's names and all. And I, erm . . . I found a record for you, mate. I found your drugs conviction. And I want to know why you never told me about that. What were you doin' messin' with drugs, Ken? Lyn tells me she knew, too, and Mum, but why didn't you tell me? I'm your Dad, Ken, I had a right to know!"

Hathaway finds Lewis's accusatory tone alarming. _This is going to backfire on him if he's not careful_.

And it does. Ken's response is so loud, Lewis has to pull the phone away from his ear, and Hathaway can hear every shouted word.

"Yeah, Dad, I wanted to tell you about it, wanted to tell you when I first started using. But you were never around, y'know? You were so busy revising for your exam, always had your nose in that, never had time for me or Lyn or Mum. It was always 'Later' or 'I'm busy, Ken, ask your Mum.' It went on for, like, _years_, Dad. And all the time, whenever I needed advice or help with homework or anything like that, you were either gone or too busy. So I turned to my mate, this older bloke I met, Blake Oberon. I don't think you ever met him. You didn't know _any_ of my mates then, 'cos you were never around. He was like a father to me, he always had time, he was always interested in what I was doing. He went to my track meets. He helped me when my girlfriend dumped me. I bet you didn't even know I had a girlfriend. Anytime I needed him, he was there. So when he suggested I try weed, I took his advice. And when he suggested I try crack, I did that, too. You never even noticed. You were a lousy dad."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't _anyone_ tell me?" Lewis is shouting now, too.

"Because it would have distracted you from the exam. That fucking promotion was more important to you than anything else. Mum wouldn't let us say anything because we all wanted you to be done with that damned exam so you could get your precious goddamned promotion."

"Don't blame your mother, this mess is entirely of your own making."

"No it isn't, Dad, it's yours. If you'd been there at all none of this would have happened."

"That's ridiculous!"

Hathaway sees heads coming up outside the office as Lewis's raised voice attracts attention.

But Lewis is far from done. "And what about this gun I found in a box with some drugs? Were these your drugs? Your crack? Heroin?" Silence. "Ken? Where'd you get the gun? What did you do? _Did you kill somebody?_"

"That stuff was Blake's, okay? I was done with him by then, but he made me hide it for him, I didn't ask why. Said if I didn't, he'd tell the cops it was mine and I'd get nicked for violating probation. And you'd never get your precious promotion 'cos they wouldn't give it to someone whose kid was doing time. I didn't want to be the one to fuck up your promotion, Dad, so I took Blake's gun and shit. I did it for you. I tried to tell you and you waved me off, you didn't have time to hear me. So I told Mum and she said she would take care of it. She said you'd never know about it. But she lied. You were never supposed to find it, but you did. She fucking lied about that."

Lewis's face fills with a fury Hathaway has never seen. "Don't you _ever _use that word when you talk about your mother!"

"I'll use whatever fuckin' words I want. _She fuckin'_ _lied to me!_"

"_My son does not talk like that about her!_ You hear me? You talk like that, you are _not_ my son!"

"I haven't been your son for years, Dad. And then Mum had to go and fucking _die, and so she fucking let you find that shit!_"

"_Don't you ever speak to me again!_"

"_FUCK YOU, DAD!_"

Lewis jabs the phone with his finger, and makes to throw it onto the desk, but catches himself in time. He clenches it in his fist, glaring up at Hathaway, his chest heaving as he breathes hard through his open mouth. His face is scarlet, his eyes black with rage and despair.

He might have expected his partner to be sympathetic, but Hathaway is angry for his own reasons. He glares at Lewis.

"You self-centered _bastard_. You just cut off your own son, for _what?_ Your precious memories? Your hurt feelings? No parent should cast off a child like that. She's dead, words can't hurt her. But your only son is still living. You don't think about _him_, though, do you? You come sailing at him out of the blue, accusing him of God knows what, and then you blame him for getting angry? You really are Father of the Year, aren't you?" Hathaway picks up his jacket, and walks out of the office, past all their staring colleagues.

Lewis slumps into his chair, his head in his hands. His entire world is in ruins. A few minutes pass and there is a quiet knock on the door. Lewis does not move.

"Inspector Lewis? What was all that shouting?" It is the Chief Super. That she has walked in on the aftermath of a cataclysmic disaster is apparent, even to her. She enters the office without invitation. "Robbie?" Her tone softens. When he at last raises his head, she is shocked by his appearance. _He looks dead_.

"I need to take some leave time, Ma'am. And I . . . I may not be back. You'd better assign Hathaway to someone else."

She is too stunned to stop him from leaving.

* * *

Laura Hobson frowns at her phone in irritation. She has just gotten comfortable, her feet tucked under her, glass of red wine at hand, music playing. _Lewis calling_. She picks up the phone. _This better not be work_.

"Hi, Robbie, what's up?"

There is only silence. "_Robbie?_"

"Laura, thank God you're there." Another pause. "I, uh . . . I need to talk to someone, Laura. You're about the only friend I have left, I think. I've really cocked up my life. The one thing I thought I'd done right, y'know? Raising my kids? It turns out I . . ." His voice is shaking. "I was so busy trying to become inspector, I didn't notice I was losing my family. The most important thing in my life. This damn job cost me my _son_. And it's too late to get him back and I hate my job for doing that to me."

She thinks he may be crying.

"So now I have no son. I don't want my career. I've lost me sergeant. And I'm sitting here in the dark with a loaded gun in my hand." A deep breath. "I want you to tell me what I should do next."

The significance of what he has said takes a moment for her to absorb.

"For God's sake, Robbie. Put the gun down."

Long pause. "I can't, Laura. It's the only solid thing I have."

She is already out the door, car keys in hand. "Keep talking to me, Robbie. I need to hear your voice." She starts the car, and plugs the phone into the hands-free connection. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

She needs to keep him talking. "What happened with James?"

"I dunno. He got angry with me and walked out. Pissed him off to find out what a bastard I am, I s'pose. Well, he won't have to work with me any more."

"Don't be silly, Robbie. He only lost his temper. He wouldn't want to work with anyone else. I mean, who is there? Knox? Grainger? Templeton?"

He says nothing. She tries not to panic: _Keep him going, Laura_. "I can't see him working for DI Laxton at all." She earns a snort from him.

"You two will work it out, you've had differences before." Her heart is pounding as she negotiates traffic.

"We won't need to work it out, Laura. I won't be going back. Anyway, it's not Hathaway, it's my life. My life is shit. And that can't be worked out."

_Please, God, don't let me hear a bang_. She has to think of something to distract him. "Robbie, when you're playing a game and it's pretty clear you're going to lose, what do you do? Are you one of those people who throws the board and the pieces across the room or do you play it out to the end?"

He's quiet a while. "I play it out."

"Why is that?"

"Well, 'cos you're not the only one playing and it's bad sportsmanship to be a bad loser. And you never know, by some miracle you could win."

Before she can speak again, he adds, "Oh, I get it. It's a metaphor."

"Don't throw the board across the room, Robbie. There might still be a miracle for you."

"Yeah, only I'm not playing a game, Laura."

"It's no different. Now open the door and let me in."

"_What?_ Oh, another metaphor. Very good."

"No, it's not a metaphor." He hears knocking from the front hall. "I'm here, Robbie. Open the door."


	7. Chapter 7

When he arrives at the station the next morning, James Hathaway does not go to his office. Instead, he goes directly to the office of the Chief Superintendent.

He is admitted, and she gestures to the chair in front of her desk. "You'd better explain to me what happened yesterday."

"I can't work with Inspector Lewis any more, Ma'am. I'd like to be reassigned."

"Irreconcilable differences, is it? That's not usually a reason we grant reassignment."

"He's a selfish sod and he's incapable of following procedure."

"You _have_ had a falling out, haven't you? You've always been quite happy to ignore procedure alongside him. What is this about, Hathaway? Despite the considerable shouting and the resulting speculation among the troops, no one seems to know what you two were arguing about yesterday. Something you didn't tell him, I think I heard? And he doesn't want you to speak to him?"

"Erm, no, that wasn't me he was referring to. He was angry at his son, not at me."

She is puzzled. "So let me get this straight. You're angry at him for being angry at his son? What on earth does that have to do with you?"

"Well . . ." Hathaway knits his brow. Yesterday it seemed perfectly clear why he was so infuriated by Lewis. "He, erm . . . he was treating his son exactly like someone treated me once. I couldn't bear it, coming from him."

She raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.

He frowns. "It sounds silly this morning, doesn't it?"

"Look, Hathaway. Once again, I don't know what is going on between you two, but I know Inspector Lewis needs you, whatever it is he's going through. The man I saw in your office after you left was utterly at the end of his rope. Now is not the time for his sergeant to walk out on him while he is in the middle of some personal crisis. I will not stand by and lose the best detective team I have merely because he reminds you of someone who mistreated you in the past. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Anyway, he's taking some leave while he gets this sorted, so there's no reason you can't work in your office by yourself. He did make a vague threat about retiring, but I don't think he was serious. If he was, we'll see about reassigning you at that time."

"Retiring, Ma'am?"

"Yes. He said, let's see . . . He was taking some leave and he might not be back. It didn't seem to be the right time to ask for more detail. Anything else?"

Hathaway wonders if retirement is what Lewis had in mind, but at any rate it is apparent Innocent is through with him. He goes to their office, noticing but not acknowledging the many stares and whispers along the way. He powers up his computer, wondering what he's going to work on. Then he remembers the name Ken shouted all the way from Australia: Blake Oberon.

"Well, Mister Oberon. Let's see what you've been up to all these years since you ruined my governor's life."

Two hours later, he picks up his phone and hits speed dial.

* * *

"Hi, James, it's Laura."

"Doctor Hobson. Why are you answering Inspector Lewis's mobile?"

"He's sleeping. I didn't want the ring to wake him, and I saw it was you calling."

"Why are you there? You're at his place, yeah?"

"Oh, James. It's a long story. I, erm . . . Well, he called me last night. He needed to talk."

"And you stayed all night?" He's picturing several different scenarios.

"He's not well, James. No way would I leave him alone. If I hadn't answered the phone when he called . . ." She trails off.

Hathaway works on this a while, but soon gives up. "What are you saying, Doctor? Finish that sentence for me. If you hadn't answered the phone when he called—"

She sighs. "It might have been the last call he ever made. He really scared me, James. The whole time I was on the phone with him I kept expecting to hear a bang."

"Oh, God, he has the gun. You think Lewis was going to use it on _himself?_"

"Well, I've been trained to treat every threat as serious. So I didn't really try to analyze it."

"Look, I'll come over, okay? I need to apologize to him, and I can take custody of the gun and that damned box. It's evidence and I think we can use it to nail the bastard that wrecked Lewis's family. And you won't be alone with him in case he's still in bad shape when he wakes up. I'll be there in five."

Laura lets him in when he arrives, meeting him with a cup of coffee. "He's still asleep." She nods toward the bedroom door, slightly ajar. Hathaway peeks in and is satisfied by the deep breathing he hears. "Did you give him something?"

"No, I didn't need to. He conked right out on his bed after we—" she can see Hathaway's smirk starting to form as she speaks. "After we _hugged_, Hathaway." She glares, then shakes her head sadly. "He thinks he has nothing: no family, no career, no friends. When I pointed out I was here and always would be, he wrapped his arms around me and hung on for dear life. Literally. I felt like a life-buoy, the way he clung. I managed to get him in here and sit us down on the bed. He fell asleep like that, the way you sometimes see a child asleep with his arms wrapped around his parent's neck. All I did was tuck him in." She looks at Hathaway curiously. "What did you say to him anyway? He said he'd 'lost' you."

"Oh, it was stupid, I was angry." He can see she's not satisfied. "I said he was a self-centered bastard and a terrible father. That was right after his son had basically called him the same thing."

"Ouch. Right in the family jewels."

Hathaway snorts. "Good you still have your sense of snark after all this, Doctor. Now let's tidy the place up a bit." He glances around to where the gun and the wooden box sit on the low table. Donning gloves, Hathaway picks up the gun, puts it in the box, finds a bag for it in the kitchen, and takes the bundle out and locks it in the boot of his car. Then he returns to the flat and sits sipping his coffee with Laura, waiting for Lewis to awaken.

* * *

"Laura? . . . _Laura?_" The scratchy voice is coming from the bedroom. Hobson jumps up, nearly knocking the coffee mug out of Hathaway's hand, and sprints to the bedroom. She peeks around the door. Lewis is sitting up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He smiles a little when he sees her.

"C'mon in. I can't believe you're still here."

She enters and sits when he pats the bed. "Of course I'm still here. I don't plan to leave until I'm confident you're safe."

He rolls his eyes. "In that case, you might have to move in."

She gives him a twinkling smile. "If _that's_ what you're aiming for, Robbie, you don't have to threaten to harm yourself. Just ask me."

He gives her a funny look. "Don't tease, Laura. I'm still miserable."

She studies him with concern. "Last night, Robbie. If I hadn't answered the phone?"

The look he gives her is unambiguous. _Don't go there_. "You _did_ answer, Laura. That's all I can tell you."

"How are we going to get you through this, Lewis?"

He frowns a little. "I hadn't really _expected_ to get through this, y'know. I thought that was pretty clear."

"Don't talk like that. You wouldn't have called for my help if you didn't want it."

"I'm trying to be honest about how I feel. My life is no better this morning than it was last night. But I'm open to being proved wrong."

"You _are_ wrong. Last night when you called me, you didn't know if you had anything left to live for. Now you know you have at least one friend. Two, in fact. Your sergeant is here. He wants to apologize."

His face darkens. "Hathaway's here? The last thing he said to me left the distinct impression that he expected _me_ to apologize to _him_."

"Yes, well. That's why he needs to apologize, I suppose." She studies his face. "Can I tell him it's okay to come in?" She sees his hesitation. "I thought you were open to being proved wrong."

"Fine. But I'm not going to listen to him excusing what he said just so he can avoid feeling guilty about it later."

Hobson goes to the door and waves Hathaway in. She lets them be alone and pours herself another half-cup of coffee. _Later_. He means _after he's dead_, doesn't he? She shudders involuntarily.

Hathaway comes quietly into the bedroom and Lewis eyes him suspiciously. James inhales deeply. He knows Lewis is still stinging from his harsh words and that he has a long way to go before the man's trust in him is restored. He decides a straightforward approach is best.

"I am truly sorry, Sir, for calling you names like a child. What you were saying to your son made me think of something someone said to me once on the worst day of my life." He fidgets with the end of his tie. He can see Lewis isn't buying, so he allows a bit more.

"When I was a child, I, erm . . . needed to make a problem go away, but I was just a kid, y'know? I told an adult what was going on and the person didn't believe me, and said I was lying. So it continued. And when it was eventually discovered, the person I had asked for help kept saying, 'Why didn't you tell me, you should have told me,' and blamed me as though the whole thing had been my fault."

Hathaway sniffs a bit, his nose is beginning to run, and he swallows. _I am not going to start crying_. He checks Lewis's eyes. They are hard and without sympathy.

Hathaway swallows again. "Your words to Ken yesterday, they . . . they brought this wave of bad memories for me, Sir. And it was as though I was a kid again and all that pain and anger took me completely by surprise and I . . . I lashed out at you. I'm sorry, Sir. What I said to you was completely uncalled for and none of it is true. I'm _not_ angry with you. I'm angry with myself for kicking you when I should have been giving you a hand up." He wipes his eyes, one at a time, quickly and as unobtrusively as he can.

Lewis breathes in. And out. Thinking.

"Okay, so say I haven't screwed up _our_ partnership. How does that make anything better between me and my lad? You heard what he said to me, didn't you? That he hasn't been my son for years, that this other chap was more a father to him than I am. You want to give me a hand up, tell me how to salvage anything out of _that_."

Hathaway sits on the edge of the bed. He has to, his legs are close to giving way because he's trembling so badly. "Well, Sir, would it help if we could get Blake Oberon put away for murder?"

Lewis's eyes lose focus for moment as he works out what Hathaway is saying. Then his doleful expression snaps away and something resembling purpose moves in.

"Hathaway! D'you mean it? For that murder in 2000 where the gun was used?"

James manages a small grin. "Yep." He can see Lewis's mind racing.

"Did you find him? You know where he is?"

"Yeah, he's in Cowley. I saw him through his window this morning. Thought you might like to have the honor of bringing him in though, so he's still there."

Lewis's smile in response holds genuine warmth. "Yeah, I'd like that. Have we got enough evidence to nail him? What is there?"

"Unidentified fingerprints on the gun that match bloody prints at the murder scene—" He stops short, seeing Lewis grimace. "What is it, Sir?"

"I wiped the gun. The only prints on it now are mine."

"That's okay, we have the forensics report."

"Ah, yeah. A'course."

Hathaway continues to sum up the evidence. "Ballistics on the gun—" Again, he stops when Lewis pulls a face.

"We didn't do proper chain of custody on that. There's no proof the bullet Danny fired came from that gun."

Hathaway gives a puzzled grin. _The boss really is not thinking straight._ "Sir, we can run another. We still have the gun."

"Riiiiight. Sorry. Ah, James?" He glances at the mug Hathaway is holding. "Any chance of some of that coffee?"

"Yeah, sure." James turns toward the door, raising his voice. "Doctor! Can you bring Inspector Lewis some coffee? And I'll take a refill if there's enough."

Laura brings in the carafe and another mug. She can tell there's an improvement in the mood and she smiles first at Lewis, then at Hathaway, raising her eyebrows in a question. Hathaway flashes a slightly broader grin, and when Hobson returns to the kitchen, she nearly cries in relief. If Hathaway can get him working on something, boost his sense of being needed, they just might make a go of this.

At last, the two men emerge from the bedroom, Lewis heading for the bathroom and Hathaway bringing the two mugs into the kitchen. Laura studies him with a hopeful expression.

"Well?"

"He's motivated again, at least. And I think I'm back on his friends list, too. But we're going to need Ken's testimony to secure the conviction. I haven't told him that."

They hear the shower start. Hathaway sits heavily in a chair. "I don't know if Ken will do it."

She frowns. "Why wouldn't he? It seems like it's something they could work on together."

"Blake Oberon—our murderer—was Ken's mentor while Lewis spent all his free time revising for the Inspector's Exam. In Ken's view, his Dad failed him and Blake stepped in to give him the fathering Ken needed at a critical time in his life. The lad will have to decide whether to help his self-absorbed, absent father or the man who was there for him as a dad. It might not matter to Ken that Blake was the one who got him hooked on drugs."

Laura stares at Hathaway intensely. "You can't let Robbie be the one to find out who Ken favors, James. _You_ have to call him." Hathaway's eyebrows come together for a moment. She's right, of course. Can't send Lewis into a minefield when any bombs that might be there are all set to explode only at _his_ touch.

Hathaway snaps up Lewis's mobile, thumbs through the directory, and copies the series of numbers listed under "Ken." He turns to the doctor. "Hobson, I need to call him before it gets too late out there. Tell Lewis I've gone back to the office and he should meet me there."

"Right."

"And Doctor?" She cocks her head. "_Stall him_."


	8. Chapter 8

The younger Lewis accepts Hathaway's call, but James can hear the suspicion in his voice.

"Oxfordshire Police? My Dad's afraid to call me himself, is that it? Ordered you to get my apology?"

"No, Ken, he doesn't know I'm calling. And in my view, you don't need to apologize to him for anything. I do work for him, though. I'm his sergeant. But I'm calling for my own reasons. I'm trying to catch a murderer. And I need your help."

"_My_ help? I don't know any murderers. I've been on the other side of the planet for eight years."

"But you _do_ know him, Ken. His name is Blake Oberon. And ten years ago, he made you conceal the murder weapon used in the case I'm working on."

The line is silent for a long time.

"You want me to grass on Blake."

"Yep."

"No fuckin' way."

"Why not?"

"That man did _everything_ for me when Dad was doing nothing."

"Of course he did everything. He was using you."

"No way. He was my friend."

Hathaway gives a very slightly deprecating snort. "You bought all your shit from him, right? One of his best customers?"

"He gave me a good price. And I owed him."

"He _made_ you into his customer. Did you ever shop around, check the market? Look, the man has a pattern of doing this. He ferrets out a vulnerable kid, builds up trust, becomes his best friend, then gets him hooked. He's created dozens of lifetime, loyal customers this way. He doesn't have to go out selling on the street. Doesn't have to worry about competition. I've been checking up on this guy who 'did everything for you,' Ken. What he did for you is what he _does_ to kids. But he's careful, and we can't get enough to nail him for it. But _maybe_, if you help us, we can nail him for something that will keep him in the nick for good."

"He was good to me. A lot better to me than Dad." But Hathaway can hear the uncertainty in Ken's voice.

"What he did to you, mate, no father would ever do to his child. He set you up and he used you. Hooked you. You knew that when he forced that gun on you, didn't you?"

More silence.

"And you were perfect—a cop's kid! Not just any cop, but a cop who needed to keep his nose spotlessly clean. If he didn't, all his work—years of revising and waiting—would be for nothing. Blake knew you _had_ to play your part, or else you'd destroy your Dad's dream." Hathaway considers a moment. "You must have cared _something_ for Robbie not to have gutted him when you had the opportunity."

"Dad woulda killed me if I told him."

"Oh, so it was self-preservation. That kind of backfired, didn't it?

Ken is getting irritated with Hathaway's attitude. "Look, mate. _What do you want?_"

"I told you. I need your testimony against Blake. The man is a destructive, evil bastard. Your Dad, on the other hand, is at worst merely a fool."

Hathaway can tell Ken is thinking. "What do I get in return? My Dad's respect?"

"You already have that, though you probably don't believe me."

Ken snorts. "Why would he respect me?"

"Because, despite his lack of attention and your detour into drugs, you managed to get clean and you're basically a decent guy. A good brother to Lyn, from what I understand."

Ken's silence drips of disbelief.

"So, what _do_ I get if I already have Dad's respect?"

"_Self_-respect, Ken. I know you want to put things right. Your Dad wants to, too, but he's clueless about how to start."

"Huh. You don't know anything about what I want."

Hathaway is silent for so long, Ken has to check. "Sergeant?"

James clears his throat. "You're like me, Ken. You're the kind of son who wants to make his father proud. Sometimes it actually works. Other times you do backflips and find he's not looking. Or you need his help to do something great and he won't or can't give it. And _sometimes_, when your father is a genuine, self-centered bastard, he does everything he can to make you fail. That's the kind I had, Ken." Hathaway's voice gets very quiet. "And even though it's too late, I still find myself trying to make him proud. Needing to make him proud. So I know what it means to have a _guaranteed_ chance to do exactly that."

Silence.

Hathaway swallows hard. "Ken, your Dad . . . He's a lovely guy. Yeah, he can be a little thick when it comes to the people close to him. And he made a huge mistake in letting the Inspector's Exam and his desire for promotion blind him to what was going on. But that's all it was—a mistake. He didn't mean to hurt you. He's human, as I've found out."

Ken snorts loudly. "Yeah, _very_ human."

Hathaway smiles. "I hear you. But Ken, you have the chance to work it out with him. He wants it, and I think you want it. _And_ he's still alive so you both can make it happen. Not everybody gets that chance. Give him a break, will you? And yourself."

Ken doesn't answer.

_But he isn't saying no_. "Come back to England for the trial. The Crown will pay your way if you're a witness for the prosecution. Help me get that callous bastard Blake put away for good."

Peering through the office windows, Hathaway can see his boss swiftly approaching. "Look, Ken, your Dad is about to come in, and he doesn't know I called you. So I'm going to need to hang up or he'll skin me for this. Yes or no, man? Will you help me?"


	9. Chapter 9

Hathaway sits tensely in the gallery, his eyes flicking around the courtroom. The prosecution has done all it can and the decision is in the hands of the twelve ordinary people who are now weighing the evidence: the forensics; the statements of the original investigating officer they brought in from Manchester to testify; the testimony of the current investigating officer, DI Lewis; and the testimony of a reluctant young man, no older than James himself, who can affirmatively link the accused to the murder weapon. James glances at his Chief Superintendent, sitting next to him, beaming, and rolls his eyes. She's less concerned with the outcome of this case than with the fact that her top team is back in business.

James reflects that the process of rebuilding that team was very nearly scuppered when Lewis found out about the phone call to Ken. It was only after Hathaway pointed out that Ken was an adult, free to make his own decisions, that the older man conceded he could not prevent the prosecution from using Ken's testimony if he agreed to take the stand. Still, he was livid that Hathaway had gone behind his back to talk to Ken. He'd even gone so far as to call Ken and try to talk him out of it, making sure he understood that both generations of Lewis men would be subjected to brutal cross-examination by defence counsel. He'd been right about that. The questioning implied that the Inspector was biased, trying to make up for his past neglect of his son; that Ken's judgment was clouded, severely impaired by long-term substance abuse; and that they both schemed against Blake, who was little more than a bystander, caught in the fallout of a dysfunctional and sometimes violent parent-child relationship. The prosecuting barrister was able to remedy a fair number of these misleading inferences through skillful and sensitive redirect, but Hathaway is left with little doubt that both father and son had become thoroughly demoralized and hostile by the end of the prosecution's case. By now, he has serious doubts that the fragile peace the two managed to construct has survived the ordeal.

At long last, in single file, the jurors re-enter the courtroom to deliver their verdict. Their decision is, as it must be, unanimous.

Guilty of murder.

Blake turns toward the gallery and glares at Ken with unconcealed fury. Ken's eyes narrow and then he looks away, studying his father's back as the inspector stands at the prosecutor's table. Lewis catches Blake's movement and he tracks to where the convicted man is staring. His eyes meet Ken's and his breath catches. _Is he sorry he turned on his old friend?_ But no, Ken is giving his father a satisfied smile. And a discreet thumbs-up. Lewis breaks into a broad grin and the lump in this throat dissolves.

* * *

Hathaway brings in the round and the small group raise their glasses in response to Lewis's upheld pint. "To friends and family." They all clink glasses, but Lewis isn't done yet. "To me sergeant," he nods toward Hathaway, "me oldest friend," he indicates Danny, "me _lifesaver_, thank you, Laura," he smiles at her, "and most importantly, to me son." He gazes at Ken proudly. "Cheers." He taps Ken's pint with his.

"Cheers." They all reply and drink deeply.

Danny turns to Lewis. "Guess the box didn't turn out like in that Greek story after all, eh, Robbie? I mean, in the story, doesn't that lass release a whole kit of misery and bother on humankind? This seems like a happier end than that."

Lewis beams at his old friend. "No, Danny, it's the same story. It's perfect. Pandora, she . . . well, she let all those miseries out of the box—only it was really a big jar kinda thing, called a 'pithos.'"

Hathaway is surprised Lewis knows this.

"She tried to stop it by slamming the lid back on, but all the nasties were out by then. But she did save one thing for us, one little thing she managed to keep in that jar. D'y'know what it was?"

Danny shakes his head. "What was still there, man?"

Lewis studies his son, who is listening intently. "Hope, Danny. She kept Hope for us. So I think all this turned out exactly like that story."


End file.
